


all elves go to heaven

by ang3lba3



Category: Christian Bible (New Testament), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Afterlife, Crack Treated Seriously, God is a bad father, God's A++ Parenting, Hopeful Ending, Other, Shocking Amounts of Worldbuilding, Time Travel Fix-It, dobby as remembered from googling some stuff, the bible as remembered from my childhood hyperfixation on not going to hell, yes jesus and dobby fuck but its offscreen this is about forbidden love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23436148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ang3lba3/pseuds/ang3lba3
Summary: It's almost a pity, that the other elves are too afraid of him, of what he reminds them of. They hate him because they fear him, they are ashamed of him because they cannot understand him.
Relationships: Jesus Christ/Dobby
Comments: 31
Kudos: 67





	all elves go to heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Reviewers say:  
> "that was way more topical and deep than dobby/jesus fic has any right to be." - Bird  
> "I hate you so much how dare you be talented enough to make this beautiful" - Merlin  
> "Hm I regret our friendship now, vampire or not" - Mello

When Dobby dies, a few mourn, and for a while. And on his gravestone it is carved that he is a _free elf,_ the same way that it is carved into his soul and into his skin and into his flesh and into his blood and into his bones.

Dobby is a free elf.

Dobby has died.

Only one of these things can be true.

It's almost a pity, that the other elves are too afraid of him, of what he reminds them of. They hate him because they fear him, they are ashamed of him because they cannot understand him. They tether themselves to the souls of their masters, of their hearths, of their homes. They tether themselves to humans, and they hide in the long shadow of their souls, in the Grace that He left behind to all who would accept it through his teachings. To all who would serve selflessly, faithfully, through the pain and the hardships. And one day, when their immortal life has dwindled to a flicker of its brilliance, when they are near mortal-

Then He will entreat the Father of Men to release them from their suffering, for the memory of the One He Loved, and lo for His Father yet feels tenderness in his heart towards his Son, he will allow them in. All of them, but the One who defiled His purity of heart, who stole His loyalty away from His Father, and nearly Damned the World.

Dobby dies a free elf, because _fuck that,_ and _fuck_ the Father of Men. He's about as merciful a father as Lucius was, and asks for far more. Men and their Father can all just- fuck off. He won't share an afterlife with them, even if they've so crowded the world that he has no choice but to share his life with them.

So Dobby dies a free elf.

Which makes it all the more surprising that he doesn't _stay dead_.

***

He wakes up, which he had not been expecting to do, and the first thing he realizes is that the world - _is - wrong._

Dobby knows the taste of magic and technology, the taste of humans, the taste of the lingering mark of He Who Died For Us and the Father of Men long after their days of power had ended. And what he tastes on the hot air is not that. 

He can't taste technology at all, when its copper-steel-lightning-thrum can gag him if he isn't careful. Instead, there is magic, and He Who Died for Us, so strong that he chokes, and most oppressively of all not a scent but a _feeling_ of being watched. Being Seen by All. 

The Father of Men.

But he cannot be so powerful, he _cannot-_

Movement. Sounds. From his left. 

Instinctively, Dobby scurries behind a small bit of scrub brush, huddles there and hopes that the darkness hides him from human eyes. 

"Brother, you're too serious," a man's voice says. "What harm could it do?"

"What harm could anything do?" another man retorts, and Dobby clasps his hands over his mouth to stifle his gasp.

He cannot know that voice. Yet he could never _not_ know that voice. 

"Ask someone else. It's a wedding. You'll survive if you run out of wine," He Who Loved continues. "I'm not a party trick to be brought out when it's _convenient."_

"...you know that's unfair," the man says, but he doesn't explain how, simply stomps away. 

Dobby breathes into his palms, too quickly, nearly hyperventilating. He can't be here. He can't. That would mean - he just wanted to die a _free elf._ The possibilities flash behinds his eyes, a horrible circle of time and himself at the center, and he can't even deny that it makes sense. Of course it makes sense. Hasn't he always identified with the One He Loved? Isn't that why he chose to die a free elf- because it was unfair, because to go to a Heaven Ruled By The Father of Man was to agree with that Ruling?

But still. 

"...who's there?" He Who Loved says. His voice is wary. 

_But it won't be forever._ Dobby thinks, despairingly. 

"Hello? Someone?" He Who Loved asks, voice gaining an edge. And then he sighs, settles on the ground next to the bush. Dobby can see the edge of his coarse robe, the nervous twist of his fingers. "No one. Of course. It's always no one, for me." 

He thunks His head against the side of the building, once, twice, a pointless endeavor. "Why do I even bother? Bad enough son without being paranoid, too." He mutters.

That twists, like a knife through Dobby's rib cage. 

"No one's being here," Dobby says into his hands. He cringes into himself at the shocked tone of the silence. And then it twists, into something almost amused. 

"No one, hm?" He sighs. "Sounds nice, to be no one."

"It's not," Dobby says, and drops his hands. He feels safe like this, still unseen in the darkness, even if He must know that Dobby is an elf by his voice. The talent for speaking in tongues was not so common, even back then, and he'll taste of house and hearth magic to whatever senses He has. "No one to get to know, if you're no one."

"And would you get to know me then, little elf?" He asks, something longing in his voice. "If you were someone."

"Mayhap I could be someone," Dobby allows. "If it were to get to know you."

He laughs, sharp and bright, and pushes at the bush playfully. "Who is your master? I didn't know any magic-blessed were here tonight."

"Dobby has no master," Dobby says, and that old fierce pride wells up in his voice. "Dobby is a _free elf."_

"Free to do what?" He asks, and that same delight builds into something stronger, more admiring, _respectful._ It gives Dobby courage. 

"Whatever Dobby wants," Dobby says, picking his way out of the bush until he's face to face with He Who- 

"Oh," He says, as if the breath has been knocked out of Him. His pupils dilate, He swallows, licks His lips, looks quickly away. He fumbles with his jacket, shrugging out of it with shaking hands. "Your- here."

He thrusts the jacket at Dobby. Dobby takes it, wraps it around himself. He can't help but feel a twinge of something, something he's never felt for Winky or Missy or Slinky, for any of the house elves that he should or any of the humans that he's met. The very first thing He would give Dobby, even before His name, is clothing in a world where he has none.

"Dobby be thanking you greatly," Dobby says. He fastens the buttons, nimble fingers at a house elf's speed. He Who Loved still will not look at him, flush over his cheeks and down his throat, warmth spreading under His skin that Dobby wants to reach out and touch. 

"No, uh, no need, it was..." He laughs, short and quick. "I have a proverb for this, you know." 

"Does you?" Dobby asks politely. He doesn't really care about the story, but His voice is nice. A smooth, rolling tone, an ocean that can wear away the most stubborn stones and dash all but the strongest buildings to rubble. 

"Yes. It uh... it says..." He finally looks to Dobby then. "If your eyes offend you, pluck them out."

"Is Dobby offensive to be looking on?" Dobby asks, raises his eyebrows. He tries not to look as hurt as he feels by the implication. 

"It's- it's not that kind of offense," He huffs. He turns his face back towards the sky, the velvety dark with pinhole stars spread above them. "I'm Jesus."

"Dobby," Dobby says, and sits next to Jesus. The smile at such a simple offering, a name that He would already have picked up, is a gleam of white against the dark of his unshaved beard and sunstained face. 

"It's nice to meet you, Dobby," Jesus says. "You going to be in town for a while?"

Dobby tries not to smile, tries not to let the fear or pain show. Jesus must be only 20 right now, and it is well known that he will only live to see 33. He has time. Not much, and he can't afford to waste it grieving that which is not yet lost.

"Dobby might be," Dobby says, and looks up at Jesus, sly and flirtatious in a way he's never bothered at before with anyone. "If town is where Jesus be."

Jesus looks at Dobby and then just as quickly away, and where his fingers rest on his lap, they twitch into claws. And Dobby knows that as insane as this is-

He's exactly where he's supposed to be.

***

They travel together for years. Grow closer, grow together, never bridging that final distance. The one that Jesus' Father will not forgive him for.

It never seems like the right time to tell Jesus that Dobby is damned anyways. 

It never seems like the right time to tell him that it's no use not to fall in love, when Jesus can't even admit that that's what they've done.

Dobby passes loaves and fishes to the poor. He ensures that on those who the Father of Man refuses to work miracles the miracles will still be done. He conjures wine for them at night, and they drink it from the same goblet, passed back and forth between hands that barely brush. He tries to say with his unwavering dedication to Jesus and not his Father what he cannot say out loud.

But all good things come to an end, and when they crash into each other- so long held apart, so long held in control- it could only ever be explosive. 

***

Jesus tells him that it's best if they never speak of that night.

Dobby nods, considers, and then very deliberately says, "Jesus be meaning how he put his dick in Dobby?"

Jesus confirms that is in fact what he means.

Dobby nods, considers, and then very deliberately says, "Dobby doesn't think so."

Jesus tells him it was a one time mistake. That lust is not allowed for the Son. That his Father's tolerance only stretches so far.

Dobby nods, considers, and then says, "The Father of Man is being a piece of shit, and Jesus be knowing this."

Jesus does not say no. 

"Dobby is not being a Man. Dobby is being a free elf. _Dobby,_ " Dobby says, and bites back tears. "Is not being a _mistake."_

Jesus does not say wait, either.

***

They meet again in the desert. 

"We have to stop meeting like this," Jesus tells Dobby, his smile more of a grimace in his thin, sunburnt face. "I'll get the wrong idea."

Dobby's not sure what the wrong idea is. He'd been minding his own business in a tavern, huddled in the cellar, drinking wine that he'd conjured himself. He might belong to no one and be beholden to no laws in this strange and hostile land, but he wouldn't become a thief. Not for wine. And then, in a crack of the universe that smelt of sulfur, he was here.

"Whazza wrong idea," Dobby asks, and flops onto the burning sand next to Jesus. His-- friend. 

(Because he hadn't wanted to keep him. This is the part of the story that was never written down.) 

"Forty days of temptations, little elf," Jesus sighs, and flings his arms wide. They're near skeletal, wasted away. But he cannot die. Not like this, not from mere deprivation. Not from anything, until the Father of Man allows it. "So what are you to tempt me with?"

"Wan' sum cheese?" Dobby asks the sky, turning away from Jesus, his form lithe and enticing even now. 

Jesus snorts, an ugly laugh that turns into a sob. His arm nearest Dobby slides down, as if of its own accord. Hand so close that Dobby can feel the grains of sand move when his heartbeat pulses through his fingers, twitching them ever so slightly. So close, yet not touching. 

"I'm so tired," he whispers.

"Over soon," Dobby tries. His tongue feels thick from the days of wine and not much else. He really would like some cheese, but eating will make him sober. He's not sure if he wants that. "It'll... it's soon now, isn'ts it?"

"Yes," Jesus whispers to the cloudless desert sky. "Yes, it is."

"Then what does it be mattering what Jesus does with Dobby?" Dobby whispers.

"I," Jesus says, and squeezes his eyes closed. "It all matters. They depend on me."

"Your siblings," Dobby nods. "The Father of Man be needing a contraceptive, if he not be knowing how to keep his childs safe without killing one."

"I'll be sure to mention it to him," Jesus says dryly. 

"You don't have to be doing this," Dobby says. "You be buying them passage into the Father's home, when he would not give it freely? When he would rather watch them be burned?"

"I'm their older brother," Jesus says, and his hand draws up through the sand, away from Dobby. Away from the almost touch. Up and away, towards the sky, palm flat and entreating to the empty blue, the merciless sun. "It's my choice."

"And what a choice it bes," Dobby mutters, turns on his side, away. 

Jesus grasps his shoulder then, flips him over, turned toward him. The height difference is not insubstantial, but Dobby had flopped near to his head, as he so often did, so that they were facing each other at eye level. 

"He's not cruel," Jesus says, firmly, with the belief of a beloved son, with the belief of a deluded child. "He'll listen to me. We've been talking, and there's- I've made a way, for house elves, so long as-"

"So long as we be good little slaves the way the Father of Man be intending for us," Dobby spits. "So long as we never be free, so long as we serve, so long as we turn the other cheek when the master slaps one."

Jesus lets go, abruptly. 

"Dobby be knowing what the Father of Man offer to Jesus," Dobby says, firmly, steadily. "And Jesus will be knowing that Dobby will not do it."

"He'll never let me leave his home," Jesus says, and Dobby can see in his face that he's closer to breaking than he's ever been, than he ever will be again. Dobby knows that this is not where he breaks, that no matter what he says, it won't be enough. "He'll keep me there. Hold them prisoner against me. I'll never- _we'll never-"_

"Dobby is not cruel," Dobby says, leaves the _unlike others,_ unspoken. He reaches a thin hand out, entwines it with Jesus'. Smiles at him. "Dobby has been knowing this."

"Dobby..." and Jesus blinks, hard, as if he wants to cry more than anything but cannot summon the tears. "How long have you known?"

Dobby brings Jesus' hand to his lips, kisses it. "Dobby be telling Jesus a story..."

And he does.

He tells Jesus the story of a house elf, born nearly two thousand years from now. He tells Jesus the story of a house elf who could not accept His gift. He tells Jesus of waking up outside a party, so many years ago. He tells Jesus that he has always, always known.

"I'm the only one who's supposed to suffer," Jesus says, shoulders hunched in. "I'm the _only one_ who's supposed to _suffer_."

"Jesus be knowing that's not true," Dobby says reprovingly.

"But my Father cannot _lie,"_ Jesus snaps. "He can't. It's impossible."

Dobby sighs, deeply. Buries his face in Jesus' chest, so he does not have to see his face when he says this. When he asks the question that he knows will end everything. "And who," Dobby says softly, wishing he'd had more time, _always wishing for more time,_ "be telling Jesus that the Father cannot lie?"

The lightning bolt isn't much of a surprise. It's dramatic enough, under this cloudless desert sky. The pain is a bit of a shock. Worse than hands on an oven or a stab wound but somehow both at once, and even worse than that, the frantic sobs of Jesus as he tries for a miracle that will never be granted.

***

Dobby wakes up after dying for the second time.

It's peaceful enough here. 

Forest. Moonlight. Sunlight. Air. Rainbows. Beautiful. And all around him- as far as he can see-

laughing, playing, embracing, kissing, eating, resting-

The ones who did not accept Jesus' sacrifice, who were turned away from the house of the Father of Man. Who for whatever reason did not make good on the offer, or who revoked their acceptance. Someday, Dobby hopes, Jesus will meet him here. Someday, Dobby hopes, Jesus will see his father for what he is, for what he's done, and he will decide his sacrifice is not worth it.

Someday. 

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/cryingiscooltm)


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